From Me to You
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "She likes these small, inconsequential kindnesses they do one other." Pure innocent fluff.


_**A/N**_ _: Just a random little scene. I'm a sucker for domesticity._

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She is almost asleep when she hears the front door open. He's quiet coming in, as usual, but she has become attuned in recent weeks to the sound of him coming home. _Home_. She smiles at the thought, eyes still closed, lazily rolling over to face the empty side of the bed, his side, so she can watch when he joins her. They've only been living together for a couple months now— _It's still new,_ he likes to say, always says, especially if they get into any sort of disagreement. He'll just drop the subject, shrug, and, as if on a sitcom and expecting a laugh track to follow, he'll proclaim to the room, _Hey, it's still new_. Sometimes it makes her want to smack him. Other times she just shakes her head, turning away so he won't see her smile.

He doesn't turn on any of the lights as he steps inside, but she tracks his progress through the apartment by sound. He stops in the kitchen—there's a series of clinks, a rush of water; he's set down his keys, and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water. She is too far away, but in the silence that follows, she pretends she can hear the dull gulps his throat makes while finishing the water in one or two big swallows. She spreads out a hand, palm down, onto his side of the bed and rubs it in random arcs, as if to magic him there.

When he finally does come into the bedroom (after brushing his teeth in the bathroom—another rush of water—and then taking off his shoes, _thunk, thunk_ , in the hall), he does so on tiptoe. She rolls back a little in bed, propping her head up on a pillow and opening her eyes so he knows he doesn't have to be so quiet.

"Hey." He keeps his voice to a whisper anyway, and it makes her smile for some reason. "I thought you'd already be out."

"Mm," she shakes her head. Her curls rustle softly against the pillow behind her. "I waited up."

"Kind of you." He smiles as he passes by the end of the bed, and reaches out to one of the little mounds beneath the bedspread that mask her feet, squeezing it gently before continuing on to the dresser.

It's a lie, technically. She didn't wait up, at least not on purpose. She was about three seconds away from blissful sleep when she heard his key in the lock. But he doesn't need to know that. But of course, she realizes, he probably already _does_ know, and is humoring her as she's humoring him. Regardless, she likes that he's pretending anyway, and that she is, too. She likes these small, inconsequential kindnesses they do one another. Privately, she believes they are what love must be made up of: one tiny kindness stacked upon another, each exchanged back and forth until both parties forget the score, and neither so much as thinks of tallying it up.

They haven't said it yet. _I love you._ Or at least—she hasn't said it. He's said it a few times. He's said it sober and drunk and he's said it as an explanation and a promise. He has said it so that, in his words, she knows that it doesn't have to be a huge, nerve-wracking moment. It doesn't have to be life-changing. _It's just three words,_ he said some time ago, and she had nodded, as if it really were that simple.

She watches him from bed, her eyes lazily tracing over the dark, shifting shape of him as he strips out of his clothes and pulls on a t-shirt to sleep in. She listens to the low scrape of wood against wood as he closes and opens drawers to put away his clothes from the day. When he slips into bed beside her, she turns her head once more his way. They kiss hello, and goodnight, without words. He tucks her hair behind one ear as they does so, and she closes her eyes at the breadth of little things he can remember about her. She likes her hair out of her face when she sleeps, otherwise it tickles her and keeps her awake; this is a fact not from Before, but from After. From now. He has adjusted himself to this new her, is adjusting himself every day, and she kisses him once extra tonight, just for that.

It's late, and they're both tired, so they don't even bother trying to exchange the details of their days. He simply asks, "Doing okay?" and she nods yes, scooting forward until she can rest her forehead against the side of his shoulder. She knows he sleeps better when she is in reach, and best when they are touching. Even a little touch like this one, her forehead to his bicep, will improve his night. She moves a little closer.

"How about you?" she wonders, yawning. "Doing okay?"

"Mm-hm," he murmurs. The confirmation sounds deep in his chest, as if he is already unconscious and it is bubbling up from beneath the surface, and her mouth flickers in a little smile. This moment, right before he lets go and passes out, is her favorite moment. He is so loose, so relaxed, almost full of dreams already. She watches as he closes his eyes and settles into bed with a few shifts, and then a heavy yawn, followed up by a final murmured, _Night._ She opens her mouth to reply with the same, or perhaps to wish him sweet dreams, but instead something altogether different ends up coming out.

She doesn't know what makes her say it.

She doesn't know why she chooses this sleepy moment, this dark night.

She doesn't know how he will take it.

But she does know that she means it, and that she wants him to hear it before he drifts away. She wants him to fall asleep with these words of hers in his ears, and to wake up remembering them, like a dream made true.

"I love you," she whispers.

Then she closes her eyes and lets go, too.

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 _ **A/N** : Thank you for reading. Reviews would be appreciated, if you have a moment. :)_


End file.
